The Separatists

by Lis Wiehl

  The lobby lights flicker, and as the audience files into the theater Erica makes a note to do some research on the situation in North Dakota. Greg and Stan Wilson are still in a deep powwow. What are they discussing? Erica sits next to Leslie, with Jenny on her other side and then Beth. As the lights go down, Beth is showing Jenny something on her iPhone. Erica leans over to take a peek, but Beth switches off the phone before Erica can see what’s on the screen.

  CHAPTER 5

  IT’S THE NEXT MORNING, AND Erica is in the kitchen making pancakes. Pancakes she can handle. From a mix. She did throw in a handful of blueberries, so there. Greg is out for a run. The girls are in the dining room, being awfully quiet. No doubt their noses are deep into cyberspace.

  Erica is starting to obsess on what Eliot Woodson told her last night about the secessionist movements around the country. The story is multifaceted, has danger, uncertainty, drive—it might be the perfect topic for the first Spotlight. She’s especially fascinated by the couple out in North Dakota, Sturges and Mary Bellamy, and their Take Back Our Homeland movement. They’re the new, rational face of secessionism. And Erica suspects they might be great television.

  “Jenny?” Erica calls. No answer. She pushes open the swinging door to the dining room. No sign of them. “Jenny?”

  “Coming, Mom,” echoes from the bedroom wing.

  Erica smells something burning and turns around. The pancakes are smoking. Serves her whole family right for putting her in charge of breakfast. She scrapes the mess into the trash and pours another batch. Then she picks up her phone and dials.

  “Erica,” comes Leslie Wilson’s voice. Suddenly, in the cold kitchen light, Erica feels a little surge of insecurity. She can’t keep track of her own daughter or make a batch of pancakes, and she’s calling a woman who holds a unique place in the country’s cultural firmament on a Sunday morning. Erica plows forward—she didn’t get where she is by giving in to her self-doubt.

  “I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Thank you for last night. It was good for all of us.”

  “You make it sound like cough medicine.” The two women laugh.

  “The opera was wonderful. Who knew? But listen, can I ask your opinion on something?”

  “Always.”

  “Do you think the country’s current wave of secessionist movements would be a strong topic for Spotlight?”

  “I do. As Eliot was saying last night, it’s fascinating and disturbing in and of itself, but equally so because of what it says about our current political and cultural climate. It taps right into a very angry and confused zeitgeist.”

  “The Trump derangement syndrome?”

  “Exactly. There are tens of millions of Americans working their tails off to stay two steps behind. For people who live in rural areas or dying rustbelt cities, well, it can seem like their America is obsolete. That time has passed them by. On television and online they’re flooded with images of wealth, technology, and diversity that can seem almost mocking to them.”

  “In a little more than a decade, we’re going to be a majority minority country,” Erica says.

  “Exactly. And these people don’t see a place for themselves in the emerging paradigm. And they deeply resent their tax dollars paying for programs they don’t support. Secession seems like a chance to both start anew and regain what they feel has been taken from them—their sense of who they are and what America stands for. But make no mistake—these groups are dead serious about their goals. And will use any means to achieve them. They’re dangerous.”

  The danger, of course, is part of what makes them so compelling. Erica inhales and goes for it. “If I do choose it for the first Spotlight, would you consider being part of the program?”

  “Absolutely. In fact, you can name me as a consultant,” Leslie says. “If it would be of any help,” she adds in a stab at modesty.

  Erica’s short hairs tingle. Having Leslie Burke Wilson’s blessings and input on the show would be incredibly helpful—in terms of content, of course, but also for publicity and prestige. It’s major. “I would deeply appreciate it.”

  “I hope you know by now, Erica, that I consider you a woman of substance.”

  “Who saw her first opera at age thirty-five.”

  They laugh again. “It was a pleasure meeting Greg. What a terrific guy. Stan was quite taken with him.”

  “What were they discussing?”

  “Ad buys on local television stations,” Leslie says drily. There’s a pause filled with sisterhood.

  “Maybe that can be the topic of the second Spotlight.”

  “You do want to throw male viewers a bone.”

  “Anything to keep them out of our hair,” Erica says.

  “Naughty-naughty. Fun-fun.”

  Erica hangs up and flips the pancakes. “Jenny!” Where is that girl?

  Erica hears the front door open, and moments later Greg breezes into the kitchen, looking pretty darn fetching in his running shorts and T-shirt. She leans in and gives him a quick kiss and gets a whiff of sweat mixed with his pine soap. She’ll be glad when the girls are safely on their flight back to Boston—and she and Greg can work off some of her nervous energy.

  “Those look good,” Greg says.

  “I made them not-from-scratch.”

  “You really are up for anything—skydiving, saving the world, flapjacks.”

  “Someone’s got to do it.”

  Greg gives her a kiss. “Leslie Wilson is taken with you.”

  “It’s mutual.”

  There’s a pause, and Erica senses Greg wants to say something. She wants to say something too, to talk about where things stand between them, about his feelings on Spotlight. But she’s afraid if she brings it up, the mood will curdle, and she treasures these Sunday mornings filled with easy affection.

  “Where are the little monsters?”

  “Up to no good, no doubt.”

  Just at that moment, Jenny and Beth burst into the kitchen, flushed with excitement.

  “First batch!” Jenny cries.

  “Don’t guests get served first?” Erica asks.

  “Excuse me, Saint Mom.”

  Beth eyes the pancakes and says, “Maple syrup contains trace nutrients.”

  “Good to know,” Erica says. She plates the first batch and hands it to Beth. “The trace nutrients are out on the table.”

  After the perfectly edible pancakes, Beth announces she wants to “post a quirky little doo-dah from Central Park.” Erica begs off chaperone duties—she wants to work on the proposal for Spotlight: The American Secession Movement—and Greg offers to take the girls off her hands for a couple of hours.

  With the apartment to herself, Erica sits at her desk and gets to work. At one point she looks up and forty minutes have flown by. Then her mind goes to Beth. Something about that girl. An arrogance. Entitlement. She goes to YouTube and watches one of her videos. In it Beth is sitting at a desk in her bedroom, looking (Erica must admit) adorable. She talks fast, lightning fast, the words pouring out, and is indeed quirky and funny as she expounds on some feud between two pop singers Erica has never heard of—both of whom have apparently slept with Justin Bieber, ergo the feud. The whole thing is scarily immature and knowing at the same time.

  Erica stands up and heads down to Jenny’s bedroom. Beth’s bright orange suitcase is open on the floor. Erica hesitates. It would be a violation of the girl’s privacy. But Beth is clearly having a big influence on Jenny. Maybe a good one. Maybe not. Maybe a bad one. Erica feels a sudden surge of protective instinct.

  Come on, Erica, it’s already open.

  Erica kneels down, her heart thumping, her ears hyper-alert for the sound of the front door opening. She carefully peeks into the suitcase. Beth brought something like six outfits, and come to think of it, she’s worn them all. There is a side pocket. It bulges a little. Erica pulls it open and sees a package of condoms.

  CHAPTER 6
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br />   ERICA STANDS UP, RECOILING FROM the evidence. Evidence of what? She feels angry and guilty and confused. She walks quickly down the hall, through the living room, and into the kitchen. She pours herself a glass of water and drinks the whole thing.

  Now what?

  Should she confront Beth? That’s not her place, she’s not Beth’s mother. Does she tell the girl’s parents? And what about Jenny? Does she even know about the condoms? She must. Erica walks into the living room, looks around for no reason, and then walks back into the kitchen. She starts to do the breakfast dishes—she could just stick them in the dishwasher, but then what would she do with her hands? She can’t go back to work, she’s too . . . freaked out. Could Jenny possibly be having sex? No. Out of the question. Isn’t it? She’s never really had The Talk with Jenny. Why not?

  Because you’re a bad mother. That’s why not.

  And then comes that echo, that raspy cigarette-scarred echo that can never be silenced, no matter how many years go by, how much success Erica earns: Just remember, you can change a lot of things in your life, but you can’t ever change where you come from. And deep down you’ll never be better than any of us. Erica didn’t need to be taught about the birds and the bees—not when there were drug-fueled live demonstrations practiced on the other side of the flimsy plasterboard walls night after night.

  The cup she’s soaping up slips from her hands and crashes to the floor, shattering into a thousand little pieces. For a moment she’s afraid she’ll burst into tears. And then she hears the front door open.

  Erica goes to the closet and gets the broom and dustpan. She quickly sweeps up the shards and is finishing just as Greg, Jenny, and Beth pile into the kitchen.

  “Honey, what happened?” Greg asks.

  “Oh, nothing, no big deal. Really. Dropped a mug. Nothing.” Erica dumps the pieces into the trash and asks brightly, “How was the park?”

  “Awesome,” Beth says. “We rented a rowboat and I did a bit with Jenny filming me.”

  “Why don’t you girls go check out the footage,” Greg says. As soon as they’re alone in the kitchen he asks, “What’s going on?” His eyes are so full of concern and Erica feels so at sea. He goes over to her and runs his hand down her hair. “What is it?”

  “I found condoms in Beth’s suitcase.” She breaks away from Greg. “I know, I shouldn’t have been snooping. It was wrong.”

  “Erica, every mother snoops. Jenny is your kid and she brought a friend you don’t know into our home.” He takes a step toward her. “Anyway, you did snoop. The question is, where do we go from here?”

  “I have no idea. I just want to get back to work on Spotlight and pretend this never happened.” Erica collapses into a kitchen chair. “Oh, Greg, what if Jenny is sleeping with boys?”

  “I think that’s highly unlikely. And whatever she is or isn’t doing, we don’t want to overreact.”

  “Greg, sex is dangerous at that age, in so many ways.”

  Greg walks over to Erica, stands behind her and puts his hands on her shoulders, and massages gently. “I love you, Erica. I know this is bringing up a lot for you. Like Susan, for instance.”

  “I hear her taunting voice. I’m afraid I inherited her mothering gene.”

  “You are not your mother. You’ve raised a great kid.”

  “You mean Dirk and Linda have.”

  “No, I mean you have. You, Erica. You’re a wonderful mother and Jenny adores you.”

  “You’ve seen how sarcastic she’s becoming. And she’s angry at me. Again.”

  “It’s called adolescence.”

  Erica turns and looks up at Greg. With his thumb he gently wipes away some silly wet from her eyes. Erica gulps air, wills herself to grow still, to focus, to replace emotion with reason. She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she grasps Greg’s hand in her own and holds it to her cheek. It feels warm and soft and rough and safe. She stands up and kisses him lightly on the lips. Whatever professional jealousy he may be feeling seems a million miles away. Their marriage is solid. Isn’t it? “Thank you.”

  Greg follows her out into the living room. They can hear the girls’ laughter from down the hall. Erica walks toward the sound, saying, “Jenny! It’s my turn for a little walk.” She hopes her casual tone masks the apprehension she feels.

  CHAPTER 7

  NEAL CLARK IS SWIMMING HIS daily laps at the Union Club. How many sixty-four-year-old men swim for an hour a day? He loves the rhythm, the strokes, the breathing; it’s a meditation for him, his mind clears and fresh ideas pour in. Neal Clark loves ideas. Ideas are what got him where he is today, which is a long way from where he started. In a dirt-poor nothing of a town in the middle of nowhere. His father worked on the highways—a brutal job in the Manitoba winters, a thankless one in the baking mosquito-ravaged summers. He hated it and took out his bitterness on his only son, while his mother cowered in the corner, afraid of the man she married.

  Neal knew from his earliest memory that he was going to get out. School was nothing but a distraction for him, a waste of time. The teachers would chastise him for not doing his homework. Fools in their frayed cardigans and half-glasses. He got his first after-school job when he was nine, shoveling manure on a nearby farm—and he hasn’t stopped working since. He dropped out of school at fourteen, the very day after he finally stood up to his father. Knocked him out, he did. Right onto the kitchen floor. That was a lesson learned. He left home a week later and moved to Winnipeg, where he got a room in a musty boardinghouse and found a job unloading freight for the railroad. He kept his mouth shut and his ears open. Saved every nickel he could, and earned more on the side collecting scrap metal. He began studying geology, devouring books and articles by the dozens. Bought his first piece of land when he was twenty, paid cash. Then made his pitch to a local oilman with deep pockets. They put in a well. It gushed. One well led to another, and soon he didn’t need a partner.

  And today he owns a tasty little chunk of the whole province—logging and gas and oil and mining and pharmaceuticals and a chain of hardware stores and construction and farming. Oh, and politicians. Premiers come and go. Neal Clark endures. Every list names him the richest man in Manitoba. But so what? What’s next is what he cares about—moving forward, rhythm, stroke, breathe. And that’s where his greatest idea—no, their greatest idea—comes in. The one that will take his wealth and power to a whole new level. Power. He swims harder, faster.

  As he climbs out of the pool and grabs his towel, he thinks, And I’ve found the perfect mate to make it happen—and to be by my side after it happens. He smiles as he thinks of her, their hearts and minds in sync. And their bodies, of course. Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Mary understands that. That’s what makes them such an unstoppable team.

  They met ten years ago, at an energy conference here in Winnipeg, and the attraction was immediate. Yes, it was physical—within the hour, they’d retreated to her suite to discuss coal futures. It was a passionate discussion. But they quickly realized they had far more in common than desire. They shared philosophies about personal freedom, government overreach, excessive taxation—intellectual sparks flew and they talked well into the night. Yes, she was married. But Neal and Mary believe in free will. Adults make choices. That’s their right. The bond that ignited that night has only grown over the decade, as their grand idea took shape and they began the long process of making it a reality. They are going to do nothing less than redraw the map of the United States. And it’s happening. Yes, it is. They’ve reached critical mass and the snowball is rolling, gathering steam with each revolution. Revolution!

  At his locker, he wonders if he should call her. Just to hear her voice. He knows how hard she’s working on her end. She’s such a worker. His Mary. He loves that. He loves her.

  But they have to be discreet. For now. Soon enough all the world will know. Neal has learned the virtue of patience. But there is one call he will make.

  As he leaves the club, phone in hand, it’s just getting
dark and the street—a few blocks from downtown Winnipeg—is quiet. The May air holds a promise of warmth. He takes out his phone. Then a man appears out of the shadows. He looks half drunk, his eyes are lidded, his clothes are raggedy, and when he gets close Neal smells him, dank and rancid. He holds out a hand and smiles feebly. “Can you help me out, sir, eh, please?”

  Neal looks into the man’s hopeful and pathetic eyes—poor old soul, what a wasted life. “Yes, sure I can help you out.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ten-dollar bill. He glances up and down the street before holding it out toward the beggar, whose eyes light up. Just as he reaches for the bill, Neal shoves him back, hard, and the man tumbles down onto the sidewalk with an ominous thud, crying out in pain.

  Neal laughs as he walks away, pockets the bill, and dials the corporal’s number.

  CHAPTER 8

  ERICA AND JENNY ARE HEADING toward Sheep Meadow, Manhattan’s backyard. The park is full of New Yorkers enjoying the balmy spring day, playing and biking and picnicking, but none of it registers with Erica; her focus is on Jenny, and her own anxiety. Erica has no makeup on and is wearing sunglasses and a cap, and thankfully no one pays any attention to her.

  “So . . . it’s been a fun weekend with Beth?”

  Jenny nods.

  “Do you two hang out together a lot back home?”

  “Yes. She’s super popular. She’s almost famous. Like you.”

  “Is she popular with boys?”

  “Of course.”

  “Does she date?”

  “Why are you asking me all these questions about Beth, Mom? And why are we out on this walk? What’s up?”

  Erica takes a deep breath and leaps in. “I found a box of condoms in your bedroom.”

  Jenny stops and makes a face. “What were you doing in my bedroom?”

  “You’re my daughter. It’s my apartment.” Grrrrr—she knows it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as the words are out of her mouth.